Veil
by Airiko-the-Angel13
Summary: Sometimes, Italy watched.


Sometimes, Italy liked to watch.

It wasn't all the time, but it certainly wasn't unheard of; he simply was a man of spirits, a country of energy and exuberance, so of course he was the one who always spoke loudly and danced in cheerful circles around some of his more somber associates. As a rule, Italy was something to keep an eye on, whether to keep out of trouble or just to appreciate his smile, bright even in the darker hours. He attracted attention; he knew that he did.

But on slower days, during conferences that dragged and when his grin seemed to fade, Italy would sit back in his chair and observe.

No, not just observe—observe, and remember.

Contrary to popular belief, his eyes would always turn straight to Romano. Romano, his big brother; Romano, his other half; Romano, South Italy. Romano, who hid behind his chair with a flushed face and venomous curses while Spain cooed and shone at him with a childlike joy, felicity that could rival Italy's own. Despite the tough front he always set up, Italy knew Romano—of course he knew Romano, how could he _not _know Romano?—and knew that behind the swearing and the irritation he was pleased. Even the smallest bit of attention shed on him made him feel worth something, and Italy _hurt_ sometimes, when he remembered a scarred back and warm eyes and his own name being said lovingly, but never Romano's.

No. Never Romano's, even when Rome descended into his own decadence and lost grasp of all that had made him great. It was Italy's name on his lips, and Italy who inherited the tangled history that Rome had to give. Never Romano.

Sometimes, Italy felt guilty.

After glancing over the other Italy, he would then look the Allies. They didn't go by that name now, just as he and Germany and Japan had foregone the name of Axis, but sometimes that was all he could seem to remember them by. They never changed; America was just as loud and obnoxious as ever, constantly waving a half eaten hamburger in the face of a sincerely irritated England, while France set off with roses in hand to seduce one of the secretaries and Russia locked a flustered China in a corner with sweet-smiling demands of union. As different as they come, and as different as they were…but they're his friends now. Thinking that, he would feel warm; they _were _his friends, even if some of them denied it, and even if they denied it that was okay. He knew. When they were all gathered together like this, going through the same dynamic routines that set them apart as who they were…well.

Sometimes, Italy felt content.

Gazing at his fellow countries, he would sigh, just a little. It wouldn't be big, not enough to be heard; but no matter how small an exhale it would be, at least one of two voices would always answer.

"Italy-san, is something the matter? You seem a little downhearted today. If you wish, I could go make you some tea in the lounge."

"Tea, Japan? Ve, that'd be great! Just don't give me the really nasty bitter kind, ve, okay?"

Japan would incline his head, dark hair sliding over his eyes, and Italy would feel grateful. More than just for the tea he would receive soon; grateful for companionship, grateful for every day that he would silently watch over him, graceful and unassuming and always there. His cheerfulness was difficult to deal with sometimes, because Italy knew not everyone could be happy, or follow the same path to happiness. But Japan accepted, Japan understood, so what else could he show but gratitude?

Sometimes, Italy felt a little tired.

Then Japan would leave to get his tea. He would let his smile, his default mask, fade the smallest bit. And after Japan, always…

"Italy."

Flaxen hair, blue eyes, scarred muscles hidden beneath a bland and professional suit.

He would look up. "Ve?"

"…Don't frown like that. It's unbecoming of you."

And there would be the faintest blush, just *there*, in the shadow beneath his eyes, and Italy would suddenly _smile._

"Ve, Germany, you're worried about me? That's so nice of you, ve! But you don't need to worry, I'm just thinking about some stuff! I'm not sad, honest!"

"…Hmph." The other would turn back to his papers. "Then don't slack in your work."

"Aye, aye, sir!"

And sometimes, Italy just felt happy.

There weren't many times that Italy was quiet. He was a man of action, of living and proving that he lived; with sunny smiles and kisses and hugs, he kept those around him in a constant maelstrom of unpredictability, of moments of "oh shit, he's gonna blow himself up!" and "you know, you're really nice, Italy…" He was Italia; he was the living country of love and of life. But there were days, rare but not unheard of, that he relinquished that role and title and simply _was_, and on those days, he watched.

Italy loved being the center of attention. But sometimes, he didn't. So during those sometimes, behind that innocent and gleeful smile…

He watched.

* * *

><p>I HAVE SUBMITTED HETALIA FIC. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Apologies for rather suckish Italy characterization; I just find him to be a character who most likely has a lot of depth to him, simply hidden under years of sugar-sweet adorable. Should I write more? Hmm. I wonder.<p>

Ciao~


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